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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/26903509">Crepe Suzette</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/coffeestainsfoggeduppanes/pseuds/coffeestainsfoggeduppanes'>coffeestainsfoggeduppanes</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Hell's Kitchen (US TV) RPF</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Domestic Fluff, Fluff, Implied Sexual Content, JP is so cute I wanna cry, M/M, Swearing, Tooth-Rotting Fluff</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-10-09</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-10-09</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-06 23:20:33</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Not Rated</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>1,459</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/26903509</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/coffeestainsfoggeduppanes/pseuds/coffeestainsfoggeduppanes</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Lazy Sunday mornings and caramelised oranges always taste sweet.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Gordon Ramsay/Jean-Philippe Susilovic</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>2</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>49</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Crepe Suzette</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>I know I'm like 100 years late but YouTube finally recommended me a decade-old clip of Hell's Kitchen and I have been binging nothing else.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p> </p><p>Jean-Phillipe was the kind of employee every single restaurant’s hiring manager would trip over themselves trying to recruit.</p><p>He was polite. Personable. And god, have you <em>seen</em> him smile? He always looked so fucking good when he smiled. He was also the most hard-working maître d’ in existence. Call it a miracle, but he somehow manages—every single year without fail—to balance the management of the sorry excuses who call themselves chefs, with the assurance that every single diner had a wonderful culinary experience (the arrival of food being outside of his control, of course).</p><p>Yet, Gordon Ramsay was probably the only person in the world who could do without the Belgian’s diligence. Especially when it’s fucking seven am on a weekend.</p><p>“Are you always going to leave me cold?” the Scotsman whined, knowing very well how petulant he sounded. He stood by his tantrum, though. After all, it wasn’t very pleasant waking up in shivers over a lack of Jean-Phillipe beside him. It also didn’t help that the blankets were in a crumpled heap on the floor, which he probably kicked off of himself in the middle of the night given just how restless he is.</p><p>“And good morning to you,” JP greeted pointedly, with only a hint of passive-aggressiveness. He leaned against the hotel room’s divider that stood between the kitchenette and the dining table, hands in mid-air, holding butter and a knife. “I make breakfast, ah?” Behind him, Gordon could make out the wide, flat pan, the jar of flour. Yum. Crepes.</p><p>“For fuck’s sake,” Gordon grumbled, pulling the pillow over his face. “Come back to bed, you twat. I’m <em>cold</em>.”</p><p>“Now, now,” The Belgian tutted, “You are hungry, <em>oui</em>?”</p><p>Gordon looked at him through a bleary glare, eyes smarting at the stream of golden sunlight that assaulted his vision. It didn’t stop him from taking in Jean-Phillipe, though. Dressed in nothing but one of Gordon’s shirts which was much too big on him (especially around the shoulders), and without all that damn gel that would usually turn his head into a fucking helmet, Gordon was hungry for <em>something</em> all right.</p><p>“Hm, <em>starving</em>,” Gordon mumbled. He tried snaking his arms around the other man’s waist, but—in all of his grace and agility—JP manoeuvred out of the way.</p><p>“Breakfast,” He said instead, much to the chagrin of the other man.</p><p>“We can have crepes later, can’t we?” Gordon pouted.</p><p>Jean-Phillipe stopped being surprised at Gordon’s knack for accurately guessing dishes a while ago, but that didn’t stop him from being a touch disappointed at the ruined surprised. He continued to smile though—which was just <em>unfair </em>for the Scot—and he ran his hand through Gordon’s mussed up hair. “Are you going to wake up now, <em>mon cheri</em>?”</p><p>He knew he had long lost the battle, but Gordon still gave a groan, to no avail. When JP made up his mind about the day’s schedule, it was a feat to convince him otherwise, and Gordon had foolishly opted to dedicate his training to marathon running instead.</p><p>“All right, let’s get it over with.” He scrubbed the sleep out of his face, peeling himself off the bed and shuffling reluctantly to the other side of the suite. Gordon started rolling up his sleeves, “You make the batter yet?”</p><p>But Jean-Phillipe had other plans in mind. “Oh, <em>non</em>, I cook today, ah?” Making a point, he barricaded the kitchen entryway with outspread arms. “Sit.” He said, indicating with a flourish of his hand to the breakfast table that had already been set up with polished silverware and a vase of bright yellow gerberas.</p><p>Gordon looked at him incredulously. “JP, what are you doing?” When the Belgian didn’t move, Gordon placed his hands on hips. “Come <em>on</em>, it’ll be faster with the two of us, yeah?”</p><p>“<em>Non, non</em>,” Jean-Phillipe insisted, directing the protesting Gordon to the dining table like the firm, but polite maître d’ he is. The Scot showed only a little resistance to the well-manicured hands that shooed him to his seat, pressed flat and stern on his wide back.</p><p>“It’s <em>Sunday</em>, man,” Gordon groaned, letting himself be steered, but making sure to lean his weight into the other man, anyway. “Can’t we bloody order in or something?” JP paid him no mind, re-folding a napkin to neat and crisp edges.</p><p>Gordon couldn’t help but look back at the hot pan that was left unattended as Jean-Phillipe pulled out his chair and ensured he was comfortable. To the Belgian, it was the customer first, after all. And even if Gordon wasn’t exactly a customer right now, it was pretty difficult to shake off more than two decades of waiting on others. Still, one would think that <em>not</em> setting a kitchen on fire would also be on the list of pleasing diners.</p><p>“Sit, Gordon, <em>please</em>.” JP’s voice always had a strain of exasperation to it, which Gordon knew would probably disappear if the man just swore in anger every once in a while. “I cook today, no?”</p><p>The chef relented.</p><p>“Fine,” Gordon sighed, but he made sure to frown up at the Belgian man whose smile crinkled his eyes as he hurried back to the kitchen. Although, not without first putting a lingering hand on Gordon’s cheek, a little warmer than usual from the heat of the stove top and smelling of vanilla.</p><p>But the Scot was always a very fidgety person, and there was only so many ways he could rearrange the cutlery before he had to start pestering the other man again.</p><p>Which he did not two seconds after Jean-Philippe had left the room.</p><p>“You’re using high heat, yes?” Gordon called, and JP answered obediently.</p><p>“Yes, chef.”</p><p>Gordon nodded. He placed the fork on his left side instead. “You know oranges came in yesterday, right? They are on the shelf. Right cupboard.”</p><p>“<em>Oui</em>, chef.” The tell-tale scent of sugar and citrus wafted in from the kitchen.</p><p>“Is the sugar caramel—?”</p><p>“Gordon.”</p><p>Gordon mashed his lips together almost instantly. Jean-Phillipe had a way of saying his name that communicated a million things at once, and the Scot had long memorised the Belgian’s shifts and dips in tone and pronunciation. On the floor of Hell’s Kitchen, they only had to <em>look</em> at each other to have full conversations. Gordon could glance at the way JP was hurrying to the hot plate and know he was anxious. Know that when his voice took a pitch a little on the falsetto side that half the restaurant had left already. Know when he wanted Gordon to shut up.</p><p>Like right now.</p><p>“<em>Vous êtes trop chiantes!</em>” JP declared, absolutely filled to the brim with affection. He tapped the spatula twice on the countertop with something like a reprimand.</p><p>Gordon laughed, “Really? <em>I’m</em> the pain in the arse?” He shifted in his seat, twisting his entire body just so he could rest against the chair’s back and tease the Belgian over his attempts at flipping a crepe. “You’re the donut who won’t let the world’s best chef cook breakfast for him.”</p><p>Jean-Phillipe rolled his eyes. Those Michelin stars always did get into the Scot’s head. “You cooked all night yesterday, no? You are not tired?”</p><p>“We did something else all of yesterday night, too,” Gordon grinned with a waggle of his eyebrows, “I think that’s got me more tired than making fucking beef wellington.” He placed an emphasis on <em>fucking</em>, which rightly earned him a face full of kitchen towel.</p><p>JP gave a little shake of his head, unable to keep the smile off his face, even <em>if</em> his cheeks were tinged too pink (he would argue that they were <em>not</em>, and even if they <em>were</em> pink, it was from the heat of the cooking fire and that alone). “Eat the crepe, okay?”</p><p>Gordon rubbed his hands together in anticipation as Jean-Phillipe set the plate delicately in front of him. Soft crepes folded in quarters and the sharp tang of sugar-bathed oranges was a welcome wake-me-up. Crepe suzettes always rang with hints of nostalgia, and Gordon hummed in approval, “Looks amazing.”</p><p>Before JP could turn to his own chair, Gordon held onto the man’s arm, laying his hand on the small of the Belgian’s back. “Thank you,” He said earnestly.</p><p>Jean-Phillipe’s eyes were half-lidded with fondness, and he granted Gordon his first kiss of the day, before taking a seat by the world-renowned chef. JP couldn’t care less if his food was to Ramsay’s high standard, but he rested his chin on his arms and raised his eyebrows expectantly, anyway.</p><p>It was too sweet.</p><p>Gordon grinned at the man, leaning forward just a touch to flick away the spot of powdered sugar on the tanned skin of Jean-Phillipe’s chin.</p><p>“Fucking delicious.”</p><p> </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>I watch Hell's Kitchen purely for the 1-second frames of Jean-Phillipe looking adorably terrified in the background, holding too many tickets.</p></blockquote></div></div>
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